


The Mormo Hotel

by AwHaleNaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Dark Crack, Demon Deals, Dubious Consent, Hale Pack 2.0, M/M, Sex, Violence, Voyeurism, nothing too crazy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwHaleNaw/pseuds/AwHaleNaw
Summary: The deal struck between the Hales and the Stilinskis was the following: John Stilinski’s debt would be absolved in exchange for one year of his son’s life. The son in question would thereafter be returned, unharmed.Yeah, right.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	The Mormo Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic I had lying around. I cleaned it up and voilà.
> 
> For those of you wanting more information about the tags (dubcon), see the notes at the end.

After Stiles’ father has accepted the deal – a clichéd and terrible deal, but a standing deal nonetheless – there is nothing left to do but head over to the place where Stiles will have to spend the next twelve months of his life. He is standing in the lobby of an old hotel on the East side of the river, which, though not the grubbiest and filthiest part of the city, still houses a notable number of suspicious individuals.

It is one of these individuals that has been promised a fresh human on their doorstep.

Stiles is this fresh human, and the words _fresh human_ play on repeat in his mind – he has read these words on a printed document, signed by his father, himself, and a woman named Erica Reyes. He’s read the words dozens of times, but still the reality of it has not sunk in.

The deal that had been struck little over a month ago involved a sum of money owed to the Hales so large that no amount of menial tasks performed all over Beacon Hills on top of Stiles’ regular job would be able to pay off the debt.

John Stilinski, drunk and grown haggard over a short period of time, acquired the debt that had the stench of cheap liquor all over it. Stiles doesn’t remember a day his father was sober.

In the end, though, the choice for the Stilinskis was simple: either the father could take a shot to the head – simple, straightforward, and inhumanely draconian – or the son would be “employed” for a year by the Hales, and the debt would be forgotten.

Stiles grew up in Beacon Hills, so shady dealings are nothing new to him. It’s just that he had never thought he’d be used as a currency. Stiles’ life is lonely, and shitty. And he could really use a change of pace or scenery, but this is not exactly what he had in mind.

An hour earlier, he had hugged his father goodbye. A _temporary_ goodbye, his father had promised him. There had been no car waiting outside his house to take him across town, there had been no reminder of the starting date of the deal, nothing at all. He could’ve just fled town.

It had been a little anticlimactic, if Stiles was being honest.

So, he had walked across the bridge to the East side of the city in a slightly incredulous daze and he is now standing in the lobby of was used to be the _Mormo Hotel_ and is now mostly deserted.

An enforcer – who introduces herself as Erica Reyes – pushes him towards the stairs.

“Elevator’s broken,” she says, giving him another light shove. “Let’s go.”

He enters the apartment with solid resolve. He will do whatever is necessary to stay alive.

There are three rooms in the apartment. A large living room with a small kitchen area, one bedroom, and a bathroom so nasty would rather piss off the balcony. The living area is decorated with gaudy gothic furniture, an ornamental bedframe without a bed, sagging couches in a deteriorating state, and an old, wooden coffee table a few cushions next to it. The floor is lined with wooden slats covered in splinters and cracks and dented with holes.

Stiles spots what looks a suspicious lot like gouging marks right below the light switch next to a small kitchen table. Erica grabs his elbow and drags him to the refrigerator, which she opens roughly, eliciting a shrill _squeak._

“So, we got you some food and stuff,” she says, pointing at the shelves.

The contents are … interesting: two jars of pickles, a pot of yoghurt, a wrinkly-looking apple, and two codfish filets.

When the silence stretches awkwardly, he says, “Thanks.”

Erica _huffs_ and crosses her arms.

“No, thanks, thanks, really. I love … cod.”

A small cough startles him and he swivels around.

Three men are staring at him. The blonde one, tall and lanky with the face of a child, introduces himself as Isaac, and motions to the man on his left, a gargantuan burly figure with a peaceful look on his face. “This is Boyd.”

The third man is frowning and pinching his lips. With his straight nose and heavy eyebrows, he appears severe. As he takes one step forward, the others take a step back in one coordinated movement. It’s freaky.

“And that’s Derek,” says Isaac.

Derek studies him, eyes going up and down. It is an unrelenting and invasive look, and Stiles can only manage to say, “Uhh.”

“And you met Erica,” says Isaac.

The blonde gives him a wide, wry grin, all teeth. “Our own little human, guys, our first!”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

“He knows we got food for him, boss,” she says to Derek before turning to Stiles. “You eat three times a day, right?”

“Uhm … yes. Yep.”

Boyd and Isaac turn around and sit down in the couches. Boyd continues reading in one of the couches, Erica walks over to him and slaps his book away, climbing on top of him and kissing – mauling – him feverishly. Stiles is not some innocent mediaeval maiden, but come on. He feels he needs to look elsewhere. Propriety, or something. Besides, the sight of the two of them is making him sweat. _Inappropriate,_ he chastises himself. Meanwhile, Derek has moved to sit down at the kitchen table and is still examining Stiles.

“Get used to it,” Isaac says.

“Huh?”

“You’ll see ‘em banging in no time.”

“Oh, that’s, eh … that’s not ...”

Isaac shrugs, gets up and goes over to the fridge, taking out a plastic baggy of blood from one of the bottom compartments, and he pierces it with a straw. He sucks nonchalantly while Erica and Boyd become noisier.

Isaac walks over to the old vinyl lying on the ground in the corner of the room and puts on an old record.

Stiles recognizes it immediately and blurts out, “Louis Armstrong!”

“You like him?” Isaac wipes his bloody mouth with a grin – an easy move he’s executed millions of times before, Stiles is sure – and says, “Good man. Gets a lot of set time around here.”

“Right.”

Hairs prickling on the back of his neck, Stiles knows for sure Derek is still leaning against his chair and observing him brazenly. Stiles swallows and feels the rush of blood staining his cheeks, feeling highly aware of what these palefaces would like to do.

Drinking human blood without permission is a crime punishable by law.

Owning a human blood bag is not considered a criminal offense. There are certain loops – such as the deal that was struck a month ago. Technically, his consent was given. Stiles had signed the paper.

Rational? No. True? Yes.

Stiles loiters uncomfortably in the living room with Isaac until the sun goes down, talking about music, pretending he doesn’t see or hear what Erica and Boyd are doing – with their hands, their fingers, their tongues – all the while being studied silently and candidly by Derek. Occasionally, Derek will turn a page from one of the books he’d picked up from the stack lying piled up next to the fridge.

When the apartment is drowned in the dark, Isaac lights a few candles. “The electricity is fickle,” he explains.

“Right. We have the same problem, sometimes,” says Stiles.

Erica and Boyd have fallen asleep on the couch. Isaac is dozing. Derek is still sitting at the kitchen table, having said no more than two words – Isaac had taken another blood bad and had asked, “Want any, Derek?” “No, thanks.”

Without warning, Derek, who has by now surely glued himself to his chair, pries himself loose and slowly approaches Stiles like predator would prey – Derek’s eyes flicker and Stiles is awed at the green-golden dark glow of his serpent eyes, pupils deformed into oblong slits.

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

“Do you want to get some sleep?” asks Derek. His eyes have reverted back to their original shape, and blinks a few times, lazily, yet with a razor-sharp edge that betrays his alertness.

The nerves have made him exhausted.

“Yeah. Yes.”

“All right,” answers Derek. Stiles follows him as Derek leads him to the bedroom, where they get changed into simple sweats.

“What about the others?”

“The others?”

“Where do they sleep? There’s only one bed here.”

“They don’t care,” Derek dismisses. “They sleep in the other room.”

“And this is … your bed?”

“This is my bed.”

“And you’re sure you want me in your bed?”

“I paid for you, technically, with all the money your father owes us.” He says this as if it is logical.

“Right.”

“You smell very good,” Derek says. He sounds almost bored.

“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t know how to react to that. “Uhm. That is … weird.”

Derek seems uninterested in conversation and spends the rest of the night canvassing Stiles’ body, from his long and skinny limbs, to his bony hipbones, scrutinizing the way the skin of his belly tightens when he runs a finger over it, from the curve of his lip to the inside of his elbow – it makes Stiles anxious, but Derek doesn’t allow him to go to sleep, as if he wants Stiles to be aware of the foreign and meticulous and exhaustive inspection.

  
  


*

Stiles steels himself.

He surprises himself.

*

The next days continue in the same vein: during the day, they laze around, sleep, and eat. Usually, Derek is gone.

During the night, their one-bedroom apartment turns abuzz with activity. Isaac wakes up from his dozing, writes music and listens to the same seven vinyl records on repeat, and Erica and Boyd are busy having sex.

Derek touches Stiles – candidly, curiously, hungrily.

*

The routine continues.

Stiles doesn’t get eaten.

Derek doesn’t bite. Much.

*

The routine changes.

Derek _touches_ Stiles.

*

Derek stops holding back.

Stiles finds it exciting, despite his efforts to focus strictly on survival.

*

Derek’s lackeys make sure Stiles never escapes during the day when Derek is off doing god knows what. They keep him company in the waking hours by amusing him with books and stories, though Stiles usually spends the day catching up on sleep. Sometimes they show him their pointy teeth, their morphed eyes, and they drink from each other’s wrists and neck – Stiles is for some reason, off limits.

“You’re our human blood bag, baby,” Erica coos, “we’ve gotta keep you filled up for emergencies.”

*

The apartment is situated next to a broad river. On dark and murky days, they open the shutters to let in the fresh air, and Stiles loves to watch the grey water from afar. A bridge leads to the western part of the city, a place unreachable to him. Stiles barely thinks about his father. He is shocked, disgusted by himself. His father is unrecognisable – a ghost from another life.

*

As always, Derek comes back.

Derek has little patience for his three goons, though Erica, Boyd and Isaac seem to be very fond of their leader. Derek dismisses them as soon as he’s hit with a touch of boredom. Usually, the five of them spend the late afternoon together in the living area, listening to music and drinking. Today Derek is impatient, and soon drags Stiles into the bedroom, throws him on the creaky bed, and crawls on top of him.

Now, when Stiles calls Derek a devil in his private thoughts, tenebrous and stony, a grotesque debaucher, he thinks back to the past weeks that this madman held him down without shame or hesitancy – there is some perverse purity to the way Derek handles Stiles, an unapologetic manner of revering a warm human body in all its imperfection – its weakness, its softness, and the rounds of noisome blathering and murmuring that Stiles cannot help but give in to when he grows suddenly nervous.

They talk. A sentence here and there becomes a conversation, becomes lengthier and more interesting.

Stiles surprises himself: he likes it.

Derek bruises him, bites him, laughs with him – _with_ him, not at him.

Derek is a reverie; difficult to grasp.

Stiles goads him and teases him, and Derek _does not_ like to be teased. Stiles finds this hilarious, how a few playful words with a tinge of bite can ruffle Derek’s feathers.

Stiles tells him, with a lingering touch along Derek’s chest, roaming and tantalizing, “Mmh, your lackeys have such lovely bodies – strong, tall, gracious, like a statue – perhaps their bodies are even tastier than yours.”

Derek’s eyes flash and he pinches Stiles’ wrist painfully. “Take that back.”

“Nah.”

Eventually, with his arm twisted behind his back, face pushed into the mattress, Stiles pleads for a cease-fire. “Dude! Gods! Stop! Ow!”

Stiles supposes Derek likes to hear him beg, because Derek lets go and kisses him bloody raw afterwards.

*

Months pass. Stiles cooks and refuses to eat any more burgers or pizza. The four others watch him gobble down pasta with a faint look of disgust.

*

One day, while Derek is sleeping and Stiles is seated on a cushion in the living room, he stares at the wooden slats covering the floor. He can imagine mice or vermin peeping out of these holes at the commotion they cause every night, thinking, what are these assholes up to now, can’t they be quiet?

*

A few weeks into this strange affair, Stiles wakes up with a harrowing toothache and a dull, throbbing pain in his skull, as if he has had too much to drink. Shoving away the arm slung around his waist, he rushes to the bathroom and bends over the porcelain sink, moaning in discomfort. A sudden flood of blood is released from his mouth and he spits it out. Saliva, blood, and four teeth clatter into the bowl. Shocked, he looks up, and what he sees in the mirror is a gruelling sight: the left half of his face is covered in bright red blood and it appears that half of his dentures have gotten loose. His gums are red and angry, yet thin and flabby.

He coughs up six more teeth, and a large chunk of flesh falls out –

“Oh,” he groans. _Gods, save me_ , he thinks.

The left side of his cheekbone has sagged and he looks like a nightmare.

He quickly shuts the door when he hears footsteps approaching, and locks it shut.

“Hey!” Derek yells. “Open up.”

“Nu-uh,” he manages. _Gods_ , _that hurts_. He spits out more blood and teeth and flesh.

Is it a hallucination or did he just witness his eyes flicker into narrow slits, irises a little too bright, a little too golden?

“Hey!”

Stiles leans into the mirror and prods at the bone around his eyes.

Derek bangs his fist on the door. “ _Hey!_ ”

And, yes, he really _is_ seeing narrow slits instead of round pupils. He vomits into the toilet bowl.

Stiles calls back, as well as he can, “Leave me the fuck alone! Go play with your cronies!”

He hears Derek pad away, cursing and muttering.

Now that Derek is gone, he can follow this transformation minutely. He doesn’t want Derek here.

The skin around his eyes and mouth tightens, and small, olive-coloured scales appear at the edges. He turns on all the lights in the bathroom, hoping the power won’t go out, and inspects every plane of his face, moving his head to the left and to the right. He is jolted out of his stunned inspection by a fierce, sharp pain in his mouth. He cries out and holds his hand in front of his lips. On the inside, he feels flesh weaving and moving, accompanied by a torturous pain, like shards of glass piercing through his skin. He can sense his teeth being pushed aside, and almost chokes as he swallows a tooth. He coughs up the rest of his old teeth, each of them rattling against the sink. Almost afraid of what he will see – though, at this point, wholly convinced he knows what is going on – Stiles slowly parts his lips and probes at his gleaming white, _new_ , teeth. He lets his tongue slip past and scowls at the sliced tip –

“That son of a shit. Motherfucker.”

In a fit of rage, he rips open the bathroom door, sprints across the room and into the living room, where Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Derek are seated on the floor around the coffee table. He hurls himself across the table, which cracks and splinters with his weight, and lunges for Derek’s throat.

“You demon!”

He smashes Derek’s head into the carpet, banging it once, twice, three times, before Erica hauls him off of Derek, who seems all too shocked to move or speak.

“Gods smite you! Damn you! You’ll pay for this!”

Stiles continues to hurl insults at Derek while Erica drags him out of the room and locks him up in the bedroom.

*

The deal struck between the Hales and the Stilinskis was the following: John Stilinski’s debt would be absolved in exchange for one year of his son’s life. The son in question would thereafter be returned, unharmed.

*

Derek unlocks the bedroom door and enters, shame-faced.

“You bastard,” Stiles growls. He jumps up from the bed and puts his hands around Derek’s neck. “Goddamn it! I can’t even choke you to death! How unfair is this!”

“Sorry,” Derek wheezes. His vocal chords are being crushed, but he doesn’t need air.

“Oh, _thanks_ for your apology, you malformed mongrel!”

“Sorry.”

Stiles lets go. While he stomps in large strides across the room, Derek remains unmoving in the background. Stiles hisses, “A fucking serpent. You turned me into a fucking serpent. A python. An anaconda.” He turns to Derek. “No deal! That was not the deal! _Un_ -harmed! You were supposed to return me _un_ harmed. I am going to bite you in the ass!”

Derek actually looks embarrassed, and if this weren’t a horrible nightmare, Stiles would laugh. Derek mutters, “I … I got carried away.”

“You call _this_ getting carried away?” Stiles points to his eyes, his vision distorted and sharp. “You turned me! I was soft and squishy and now –” He holds one palm against his chest, where the rhythmic beating has slowed down steadily over the last hour he’s been locked up in here, raging. “I’m fading.”

“No, you’re not,” Derek protests, moving closer and putting his large hands on Stiles’ face. “You’re evolving. You’re not fading.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not,” Derek insists. “We’re so much more _alive_ than anyone else. Don’t you feel the changes?”

He can. The air is peppered with a musty scent he wouldn’t have recognized before, and he realizes he can seek out three distinct, individual smells – Boyd and Erica’s earthy tones are intertwined yet separate enough to be noticeable – one of them soft and slightly musky, the other damp and fresh like overturned earth; Isaac’s is smoky, because he smokes too many cigarettes and it has drenched every pore and hair in a cloud of nicotine and smoke. It’s disgusting. Derek, standing too close in front of him, is overwhelming Stiles’ nose – it is a cloying scent, a strange odour that reminds Stiles of salty skin, slightly oily.

“Gods!” he exclaims, clamping his nose shut.

“You get used to it. It becomes an advantage. A pleasure.” Derek stares at him hungrily.

“Oh, shut the fuck up!”

Stiles wails in displeasure.

*

_How strange, though_ , Stiles thinks, buried deep inside Derek, _I can smell and taste and see and touch him, now, but differently_.

*

Is he angry about his new status as a creature of the night? He’s not so sure.

*

Stiles spreads Derek’s legs and bites him in the left ass cheek, as promised. Derek yowls and Stiles revels in sweet revenge.

*

At the end of November, the deal is concluded. Stiles stands near the doorway of the decaying apartment and watches Erica’s displeased face.

“Goodbye, my little human blood bad,” she says dramatically. She squeezes his cheek.

“I’m not human anymore.”

“Whatever,” she says, “Right. Well, anyway, you’re leaving.”

“I’m going home.”

“Home!” she scoffs. “To your deadbeat daddy?”

Boyd chastises her, but she pays him no mind. She says, “Maybe you can use him as your own blood bag, now.”

“Erica,” says Boyd.

“What? Am I wrong? The man’s a mess – at least now he’ll be of some use instead of hanging around all day and mooching off of Stiles’ income to support his alcohol abuse.”

Stiles isn’t shocked by her mouth anymore. “I’ll think about it,” he tells her. He will absolutely not think about it.

Derek’s goodbye is a little less smooth and unflappable: Derek pushes him against the door and kisses him until Stiles grows dizzy with heat pooling in his stomach and groin. Erica watches the show with a leer and clicks her tongue approvingly.

“I love watching them,” she sighs. “Don’t you, baby?” She turns to Boyd, who shrugs and tilts his head at the scene in front of him. Isaac is seated at the table and writing music, uninterested in any sexual content.

Derek kisses and bites and caresses and pushes and strokes, mulishly intent on leaving a lasting impression so that Stiles will come crawling back. Derek growls and scowls and turns to his audience, “This is not a show. Go away.”

Erica snorts. “Where to, boss? Should we go hide in the bathroom? Or your bedroom?”

Derek considers this for a moment, and then rolls his eyes, kneels on the floor and takes Stiles into his mouth – Stiles splutters indignantly, but ultimately doesn’t do much else but give in.

When they’re done, Derek kisses him firmly on the mouth, adds, “Come back anytime,” and shoves Stiles out into the hallway before shutting the door.

*

Stiles doesn’t go back.

John has not improved his situation in the least. Another debt collector will come by any day now, Stiles guesses.

*

One day in April, on the eastern part of the city, Stiles finds himself sitting in a small café overlooking the river.

He closes his eyes and feels a shadow blocking out the sun momentarily. A few of the patrons are shooting dirty glances at Derek, who Stiles assumes is not very well-liked in the community. Most people are hypocrites that way – they buy Hale’s booze, but look down on these creature nonetheless. No one knows yet what Stiles has become.

They watch people pass by and Derek opens his mouth a few times, only to close it abruptly and frown, aborting whatever it was he was about to say. Eventually, he settles on, “Congratulations. I hear your father is still hopeless.”

“Thanks, Derek.”

“It’s really something.”

“Yup.”

“So …”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve searched for me.” Stiles remembers feeling watched when he goes outside these days. He is good at escaping, though. Lately, Derek has stopped.

“Why am I the one who has to search for you? Not the other way ‘round?”

“Well, Derek,” Stiles says, “I thought that was an unwritten rule somewhere. Predator chases prey, right?”

Derek places a hand on Stiles’ knee to stop it from bobbing up and down. He slides his hand towards the open V of Stiles’ legs.

“Don’t. This is a public place. A _respectable_ establishment,” Stiles says.

A woman to their left averts her eyes with a shocked noise of disbelief.

Derek shifts in his seat and sighs, taking back his hand.

“I wished to talk to you about something.”

“Shoot, boss man.”

“I would like you – to – to come back.”

“The deal’s over. Over and done with, remember?”

“Listen,” Derek says impatiently, “Sometimes people make mistakes. And I made a mistake. But I can’t fix it.”

“You call changing my DNA a mistake?”

Stiles has the upper hand and loves watching Derek – oh, so collected Derek, so stern and so stony – squirm in his seat, grappling for words.

To relieve him from his misery, Stiles gets up from his chair and gives him a pointed look before leaning in and kissing him twice.

Derek sighs in relief and grabs Stiles’ ass.

The woman next to them tuts loudly, complaining, “Well, I never.”

Derek says, “I could offer you a new deal.”

“A new deal?”

“I get you, in exchange.”

“In exchange for what?”

“A lifetime supply for your dad.”

Stiles reflects for a moment. His father is going to die, he knows this, and has known this for at least two years now. The alcohol is going to kill him. No doubt.

“No.”

Derek’s eyes grow hard and angry. He’s about to stand up and walk away when Stiles puts a hand on his arm.

“No deal,” Stiles repeats. “But I’ll propose one myself. I’m not strong enough to turn him, but you are. If you turn him, you get me. It’s an easy fix.” His father won’t forgive him, but that doesn’t matter. At least this way John will not die face down in a puddle of his own vomit.

“Deal?” Stiles asks.

Derek doesn’t even blink or think about it. “Deal.”

*

They go back. Erica is ecstatic.

*

After John is bitten, he is traumatized – appalled at his son, disgusted by himself. Stiles doesn’t care.

*

They spend the days locked up in their apartment, entangled in each other, twisting and turning like snakes – where does he begin, and where does Derek end? Does it matter? Stiles has turned into a _thing,_ and finds that it suits him infinitely better than the limbo he was stuck in before.

*

Stiles looks into the mirror, recognizing himself, and Derek comes up behind him, pushing into him over and over and over and over – Stiles loses the concept of time – and blood dribbles down his neck – Derek licks it up – Erica giggles in the living room – and they melt into the smell of fresh sweat – they wash off the stink of semen with sluices of warm water – Erica comes in and ogles them, tracing the back of their calves and the curves of their behind – Derek glares and scowls and covers Stiles’ body with his own before getting up and slamming the door shut – they cover – they hide – Stiles dies that little death, over and over and over until he is reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon:  
> 1) Basically, Derek's thinking: "Mmh. Tasty human. I will have a taste." In the beginning of the fic, it is never said/written whether or not Stiles consents to the physical advances. Later on, it is clear he enjoys it. The sex scenes are not explicit.  
> 2) Then there is a dubcon situation about Stiles getting turned into a bloodsucking creature. He does not enjoy this.
> 
> Violence: at one point, Stiles freaks out about his newly acquired bloodsucking-creature-status and has a bit of a freak out.
> 
> Alcoholism (John Stilinski) 
> 
> Voyeurism (Erica): does it surprise anyone?
> 
> ! If you are uncomfortable with dubious consent/mentions above, be kind and rewind.
> 
> That's all, folks!


End file.
